


Shoe Fetish

by fadedink



Series: Days of Christmas - 2012 [5]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF, Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: Baking, Fetish, Fluff, Multi, RPF, Shoes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:19:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadedink/pseuds/fadedink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katie has <i>shoes</i>, Orlando has a <i>fetish</i>, and Karl just rolls with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shoe Fetish

**Author's Note:**

> The 'fifth day of Christmas' for [giselleslash](http://giselleslash.livejournal.com), because she's awesome like that.

After last year, Karl swore never again. Which is why he can't fathom how he ends up as the middle man in the current round of Katie vs. Orlando.

Have you seen my shoes, she asks, picking up his feet to peer under his chair. They're not there, and he tells her that. She just gives him a flat look.

He says, love, it would help if you'd tell me _which_ shoes you want.

My new ones, duh.

Of course. Karl can't imagine why he thought there was any possibility she might want a different pair. After all, this was Katie.

Last I saw them, he says, returning to his cooking magazine and pulling it up to shield his face, Orlando had them.

What's Orlando doing with them, she wants to know, and really, Karl would've told her not to ask, but she already has, so he's honor bound to answer. Or something.

I think he's making love to them, Karl says, ducking even lower behind the magazine.

He's what? Those are brand new Steve Madden's and... She trails off in a screech, giving Karl what he's sure would be a dirty look if he dared to look.

Minutes later, there's shouting and banging and a very undignified wail (Orlando) from the back of the house. From the sounds of it, the possibility of blood is high. Karl just takes his magazine into the kitchen, because there's this bread recipe he wants to try.

 

***

 

I hate you, Orlando says, without preamble, flopping onto the sofa beside Karl.

Karl just keeps silent, because he knows he'll get the reason why soon enough. After all, it's not like Orlando can keep a secret. In fact, Orlando's never met a secret that he didn't like enough not to share.

I hate you, he repeats, falling over to nudge Karl, then heaving a dramatic sigh when there's no reaction. You're a git.

Of course I am, Karl replies. The safest course (usually) is just to agree. Karl found that out a long time ago.

You really are, Orlando says, clearly ready to launch into a long speech as to why Karl's a git _this_ time. Karl has the speech memorized. The only thing that ever changes is the specific reason. Orlando continues, I can't believe you told Katie I had her shoes.

Well, you did, Karl points out.

Orlando just huffs at him, looking wounded. That's not the point, he says, patiently, sounding like he's trying to converse with a small child. The point is that you told her and now she thinks I have some sort of weird shoe fetish.

You do, Karl says, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

Orlando stares at him, wide-eyed. Oi, I do not!

Who wants cookies, Karl asks. There's this interesting recipe for bacon chocolate chip cookies that I found. I think I'll just go and make them now.

He beats a hasty retreat into the kitchen, where the bacon and chocolate chips are waiting in non-judgement.

 

***

 

Have you seen my Christian Louboutin's, Katie asks, bouncing into the living room, her dress only half zipped and a run in one stocking. Karl pretends not to hear her.

She doesn't buy it, though. Planting herself between him and the television (and really, that's just not right at all, because he really wanted to see what Giada came up with next), she pops her hands on her hips and stares at him until he's forced to acknowledge her. Yes?

My shoes, she repeats. Have you seen them?

You have a run in your stocking, Karl tells her, ignoring the shoe question. He knows where they are, and he knows she doesn't want to know. Not really. It won't turn out well for anyone in the end because they're too low on flour for it to turn out well for him.

Karl. My shoes? Has that little ponce stolen them again?

Um, he says, searching for a believable lie. Then she gives him that look and he's helpless in the face of it. Orlando has them.

He has my Louboutin's, she says, and her tone says so much more. And what is he doing with them?

Making love to them again, something about the arch being perfect, but I didn't ask, he admits.

She screeches and vanishes. Then, right on cue, loud banging and smashing sounds drift down the stairs, accompanied by some very undignified yelping from Orlando. Karl doesn't want to know what caused him to make that sound.

After all, he's pretty sure that sexual bribes won't get Orlando out of this one. They _were_ Louboutin's after all. Karl sighs and wanders into the kitchen. There are muffins that want baking.

 

***

 

And then there's the morning where Orlando skates into the living room on sock feet, wearing nothing but his boxers. If his face is any indication, mischief is afoot. Do you know what she did, Orlando screeches (there's no other word for it). Do you have _any_ idea what that woman has done?

Is this multiple choice, Karl asks, regretting it even as he says it, but it's not like Orlando's in the mood to be pacified.

She is trying to humiliate me, Orlando says, with as much dignity as he can manage. It's not much.

Is she, Karl murmurs, not really wanting an answer.

Look, Orlando whines, spinning to show Karl his back.

Karl looks. Then looks again. And looks a third time to make sure he's seeing what he thinks he's seeing. The view never changes. There, framed by two neat holes cut into the seat of his boxers, is Orlando's white ass.

Do you see this, Orlando demands, waving a hand behind him. The movement just makes his hips shimmy, emphasizing the fact that his ass is bare.

Karl's not sure what to make of it and he says so. Then adds, why don't you just put on another pair?

Because they're _all_ like this, Orlando wails, collapsing to the floor in the best fit of histrionics Karl has ever seen. It's Oscar worthy. Karl keeps that to himself, though.

After all, he's crazy, but he's not stupid.

I can't go out like this, Orlando sobs, curling up and burying his face in his arms. Karl wants to ask if he plans on going out without putting anything on over the boxers, but he refrains. Again, not stupid.

I told you to leave her shoes alone, Karl says, a little timidly. He doesn't want to set off a fresh round of theatrics.

Oh, fuck you and your told you so's, Orlando says, still hiding his face. She can still wear her shoes.

Ah, Karl says, because, really, there's nothing else to say. Orlando's still on the floor, not moving. He's having his own personal apocalypse, Karl supposes. So he makes an effort. If you want, he says, slowly, we could go shopping later, buy you some new knickers.

That's all it takes. Orlando launches himself from the floor to Karl (and surprise, surprise, there's not a tear in sight), and Karl finds himself with an armful of mostly naked Orlando. And mostly naked Orlando is intent on covering his face with kisses.

All in all, Karl thinks, it's not a bad life. And he could still open that bake shop, he supposes. If only he could figure out a way to keep Orlando from Katie's shoes.

Next time, Karl's pretty sure Katie won't stop with the seat of Orlando's boxers. And as amusing as the idea is, Karl doesn't even want to imagine that particular meltdown.

His life is bizarre enough.


End file.
